


if I were...

by VerdantMoth



Series: The Show [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Acrobatics, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Magic, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Deaf Clint Barton, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, Found Family, Gay Sex, Gen, Getting Together, Knife Throwing, Murder, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 21:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19070869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Clint is six and getting his forearm stitched after a nasty fall from the rafters, the first time he learns the rumors of the Master.He cannot be killed.You act as if he is a god. He is just a man.Amalia looks at Teddy.He was a man. And then they broke him, took his flesh and his mind and made him something new.





	if I were...

Clint is six and getting his forearm stitched after a nasty fall from the rafters, the first time he learns the rumors of the Master. The acrobats don’t think he knows what they’re saying; haven’t realized he’s stopped crying.

They know he is not listening, but they talk loud and lazy, because everyone knows Clint can’t hear. _He cannot be killed. He has owned the tent, the ring for many decades._

_Hush, Amalia. Don’t speak of him. You act as if he is a god. He is just a man._

Amalia looks at Teddy. _He was a man. And then they broke him, took his flesh and his mind and made him something new. Something…_

Teddy shakes his head. _He is good to us. Better than any who has ever stood in that ring. It’s doesn’t bode well to speak ill of the one who puts good food in your belly._

Amalia glances at Clint, fingers tightening for a moment before she ties a knot in the thread she’s using, and then shrugs. _It is not a kindness to keep your stock capable of producing. A man who cannot die is a monster. You saw Liza’s remains._

Teddy wipes the stitches with something that burns and Clint hisses, pulls back his arm, and almost misses Teddy’s response. _Liza was stealing, hurting, ruining, and would’ve burned us to the ground. He did what needed to be done. The boy,_ he motions at Clint, _it doesn’t do for him to know this. If you think the Master a monster, then we should make sure he never meets the boy._

He turns towards Clint and signs at him, fingers still clumsy in their uncertainty, _Come. Cook will give you extra bread._ When Amalia turns away Teddy adds, _and worry not about the Master. He rarely emerges from the shadows anyway._

But Clint isn’t worried. He wants to meet this untouchable Master, the one who is no longer flesh. He wants to… Clint traces his fingers over what will be an ugly scar on his skin. At six he doesn’t quite know what the feeling is he has for this man who owns Clint’s world, but he does know what it’s like to be whispered about in the shadows.

And he wants to show the Master it’s okay, they make it through. He also wants to know what it’s like not to fear death.

—

Clint has never known a life beyond the tent, the Show. Rumor, because all knowledge in the Show is only ever a rumor, is that he was abandoned by a mother too young, too poor, too beaten to care for a son who’d never hear.

Rumor has, he’s a clown’s bastard.

Rumor has he’s the Master’s personal pick.

Clint doesn’t care which story is true. He’s never needed to know his origins. Origins don’t make him useful, don’t callus his fingers or strengthen his trapezoids or train his fears out of him.

Teddy and Amalia raise him, as much as any kid is raised under the Big Top. He used to dream, to think they were his parents. Teddy, with his dark eyes and broad shoulders. Amalia with her umber skin and wild curls.

But his hair is flaxen and straight and his eyes pale blue and skin paler.

Still, he’s thankful they found him, took him in. Amalia was the first of all of them to learn to speak to him, to teach him to talk back. She’s never said how she learned the finger-tongue, and Clint has never asked because he’s seen the pale ropes on her dark back.

Captain, standing in the middle of the ring, never wanted Clint on stage. He worried that his limitations would be more harm than help.

Teddy showed Captain how the silence actually helped Clint.

 _He is never distracted. Not like the rest of us. He doesn’t crave the applause._ Teddy’s fingers are always clumsy, always unsure, but Clint snorts.

 _You don’t crave applause, Teddy. You crave the rush, of standing on that wire and knowing one wrong breath,_ Clint makes a gruesome motion. _Splat!!_

Captain waves his hand so they look at him again. _And you, Clint? What do you crave?_

“To meet the Master, the man in the shadows,” he thinks. But he just shrugs, _To_ _earn my keep, same as the clowns. Just not in those shoes._

Captain studies him. His eyes are blue and his hair flaxen and rumor-knowledge says he is like the Master. Unaging. But unlike the Master he kept his flesh and his mind.

Rumor-lie say he chains the Master, keeps his leash short so that the circus is safe. But Clint has seen the shadows move, has seen Captain’s eyes grow hard and his fists clench, seen silver skin guiding him from whatever fool put their show at risk.

 _And the make-up?_ Captain signs.

Clint narrows his eyes, _I don’t mind the eyes. A little black mask would make me intimidating._

Teddy adds, _Make up for the height he doesn’t have yet_.

Clint kicks him in the shin, but Teddy just laughs, shoulders shaking and eyes shut.

Captain sighs. _Have the Widow make him a costume. Purple. We’ll try him on a slow night, see how it goes._

Clint cobtained his glee until he and Teddy are walking under a cloud-covered dusky sky back to their own lodgings. He jumps, pumps his fist, opens his mouth and feels air rush out of his lungs and he wonders if the noise he makes encompasses his joy.

Teddy grabs his shoulders, puts a finger to his lips and shoves him towards his hay-cot. _You must perform well. The Master wants you to perform, not the Captain. The Captain does this because he has been ordered too._

Clint looks at him confused. Teddy’s hands move fast, a sign of how serious he is. _You went looking where you shouldn’t have and now he has seen you. I cannot protect you if the Master wants you. Perform well._ His hands shake, like he has more to say, but then he pulls Clint, scrawny and short at 14 into his arms and holds him tight.

The top of his head is damp when Teddy finally crawls into Amalia’s bed, and he can’t shake this feeling he’s done something horrible horribly right. That he has found his way to the Master.

He just wishes everyone around him didn’t look at him like his head was on the chopping block.

—

The Show runs like a family, and like all families there are those who don’t get along.

People who feel Clint unfairly climbed the ladder, circumvented the years of grunt to get his own show.

He’s used to it; there are some who use the constant silence around him to trip him, who never learned the finger-tongue and who turn their heads when they speak so he cannot know what they say.

He’s got the ridges in his skin from the glass he never heard coming, and the broken eyebrow from a fight he had no chance in.

But Clint also knows that someone, besides Amalia and Teddy and the Captain watches him, over him, out for him.

Vaguely, he can remember something from when he was just learning to toddle. Glimpses of silver skin and bluegrass eyes filled with rage, and the blood of a man who would’ve seen Clint to the bottom of the ocean splashing across his face.

By the time the Widow has him an outfit, sleak, dark black detailing on dark purple spandex, most of those who voiced outrage at his performance have left the Big Top.

Clint is reminded of something Amalia once said. _No one dies under the tent. People leave, occasionally, but the Show exist in its own bubble. We exist here, are protected here, and we only leave when we are done performing._

Teddy had given her a sharp look. But he’d added, _The only bodies every found in the ring are those who have crossed the Captain, who would harm the show or other members of the family._

There have been no bodies in the ring recently, but Clint had watched the Captain’s lips as he worried about filling the gaps in the show.

_We have the twins, with their magic. They’re young, but they’ve always been ready. We have the Spider, the TinMan who comes with him, but they’ve never trained. Never performed._

Clint cannot see who the Captain speaks to, or hear their response, but the Captain’s lips tighten and he crosses his arms. _We cannot rescue them all. You cannot keep thinning out our numbers. He is not worth it._

Clint isn't sure of the next word. Lucky or Buddy. _That was never the purpose of the show. We don’t even know if his spell will work for all of them._

Clint must make a noise, must shift too hard on a squeaky board, because the Captain suddenly looks towards the corner he’s hiding in. Silver fingers close the flap, cutting Clint off from the secrets.

He wants to creep closer, wants to know more. He needs to know where those who were cruel to him have gone.

—

 _How old are you?_ Clint asks Amalia.

 _You should never ask a lady that!_ She signs back, but she’s laughing.

Clint isn’t. He needs to know. _How old are you? Is Teddy? You look just as you did when I was small. Me and the Spider, are we the only ones who change around here? Who grow?_

Amalia’s eyes darken, her skin flushing the way it does when she’s angry or scared. _You ask too many questions, little arrow. You want too much knowledge. I am as old as I am and we are safe under the tent. Do not ask questions unless you are ready for the answers._

She leaves before he can press her, but later, after a performance so grand it feels God-touched, he corners her as she’s washing her face before bed. _Is the Master the only one who does not die?_

Amalia just looks at him, a shame-tinged-sorrow in her eyes. _We all sacrifice something to be here. To be safe and loved and have this family._ She touches her belly. _We all must offer a sacrifice and when we are ready to hang up our costumes, we leave the show._

 _And what did I give up?_ Clint asks angrily. _I do not remember getting a choice in this._

 _There is no choice. You offer what you must and it is taken and you move on. Be glad the Captain’s Circus found you, and not Barnum’s or Ringling._ Amalia’s fingers move almost too fast for Clint in the dark but he grabs her wrist.

_If we do not die unless we leave, then how are we different from the Master?_

_The Master leaves the show. Haven’t you noticed how rarely he is around? The Master is not bound to the fabric of these tents, the way we are._ She grabs his face, and he’s taller than her, finally, has realized he will never be taller than Teddy or the Captain. She cups his cheeks, kisses his forehead, and says slowly so he can read her lips, _No more questions, son. Bed now, and in the morning we forget this conversation._

—

They don’t talk about it again, but Clint knows Amalia is wrong. He can’t explain to her how, about the silver fingers that haunt his dreams, and about silver flesh always in the corner of his eye.

The Master is always watching. Always present. Clint wants to tell Amalia and Teddy about the nights he wakes up to bluegrass eyes he half remembers, watching watching watching. Wants to tell them if the protectiveness in them.

He doesn’t want to worry them. And if Amalia ever saw the smooth face, saw the long hair tied back, saw the silver skin, Clint thinks she might actually leave the Big Top.

So he stands high on a wire in a glitzy purple costume and pulls his arrow and waits. The light glints off silver in a dark corner and he releases, flips, pulls, fires, catches his feet in a ring, releases, flips, fires, lands.

He never starts until he sees the silver. He wonders if anyone else knows. He watches for it after, instead of studying the crowd because he knows his arrows landed.

The silver is gone too quick tonight, and disappointment sours in Clint’s belly. Ever since he filled out, since his beard thickened, the Master never lingers.

Clint cannot ever find him in the Captain’s tent either. And since he has moved to his own tent, finally outgrowing the space Amalia and Teddy lent him, he finds he doesn’t half-dream about a cold silver hand brushing his hair or tracing his jaw.

He hates the Master. For whatever he took from Clint. For hiding from him. For _mocking_ him by starting his performance and then _leaving._

He stalks into the Captain’s tent after the show, bow slung across his back and eyes still smeared in charcoal. _I want to leave,_ he signs.

The Captain just stares at him, so Clint moves his lips, works his throat like Amalia used to try and show him. “I want out.”

He doesn’t know what kind of noise he makes, but the Captain isn’t even looking at him. He’s looking behind Clint, into the shadows. He says something, keeps his mouth too still for Clint to read, and then he stands and leaves, closing the flap behind him.

It’s dark, in the Captain’s tent. Only a few nearly done candles sputtering. Clint has never minded his ever present silent world before, not even when he was watching his back for those who were jealous. Who would’ve seen him broken in the night.

Now though, he is afraid, and he cannot stop his body from trembling.

Silver fingers grip his chin, turn him, and Clint realizes it’s not _silver_ but _metal._

He thinks, “They really did take his flesh, but what of his mind?”

The Master tilts Clint’s head, turns it like the Tamer’s do beast when they’re studying them. The Master's bluegrass eyes look like a sky on fire in the candle glow, and his hair hangs about his face, brushes against his shoulders.

 _Are you unhappy here, Clint?_ The Master’s lips move slowly, purposefully, _and_ Clint can’t help but think, _smoothly._

He shakes his head.

 _You want to leave but you are not unhappy?_ The Master’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, like he really cares to parse out Clint’s intent.

 _I want what the Big Top took from me,_ Clint signs. It’s hard to do, when his face is trapped in a metal arm but he manages.

The Master releases him and takes a step back. He signs, metal fingers surprisingly adept, _What the Big Top took?_

 _Yes,_ Clint responds, he can feel the anger in his brows, his lips. _I know the Big Top steals from us when we come. Others choose what they give but I was a child. A baby. I don’t even know what I lost._ His hands shake, and he has to repeat his last sentence before the Master understands.

_Children do not give up anything, Little Arrow. Only those who run from their other life must sacrifice what they already knew._

That makes very little sense to Clint. _Amalia said,_ he starts, but metal fingers close over his. The Master leans down and Clint can smell sweet-drink on his breath. _Amalia talks too much. Amalia left a husband who was no good, who would never love her properly, as she deserved. When she left she left a lot of pain behind, but she also left behind a life that was what little princesses dream of. No one chooses what the Big Top takes. This life takes what it must and those who come,_ the Master pauses, _who come of their own accord,_ he corrects _they may not know what they give up at first but they know what they leave behind and they make that choice willingly._

Clint frowns, tries to take his fingers back but the Master won’t release him. Bluegrass-fire-sky eyes grow dark, murderous, and all the stories of the broken bodies in the ring, of a man keeping performers in glass bottles come rushing to Clint. He’s not afraid, not quite, but he is also uncertain of himself for the first time.

_Amalia is happy here, happy with Teddy, but she’s never truly been able to leave her past behind. You, Clint, you are unburdened by the outside world. But if this is what you really desire, then I release you._

Clint has never in his life heard a noise he can remember, but for a fleeting second something echoes in his skull, something high, piercing, _painful_.

The Master steps back, _But if you leave, do not return_.  He stalks out of the tent with steps so heavy Clint wonders if his legs are metal too.

He goes to Amalia and Teddy’s tent, eats with them, and then returns to his own. But he cannot fall asleep on his hay-cot, remembering the feeling of cold metal fingers tight in the curls of his golden beard.

He doesn’t leave, not that night. Silver glinting starts his performances and ends them too.

—

The fires come out of nowhere. They start small, little sparks easily stamped out. A freak accident that burns dinner and chars the tables. But then the home-tents burn.

Random, no pattern, flames that happen during shows, during sleep, during play.

People are talking, whispering, always out of Clint’s line of sight, but he catches bits and pieces.

 _The Master is angry_.

_Little Arrow wants to leave._

_Everyone wants to leave._

_The TinMan found grey in his beard and his Spider has disappeared._

_Little Arrow rejected the Master._

None of it makes sense. He doesn’t want any of it to be true. But then the twins find him, red and silver hair wild and sooty and their eyes panicked. Wanda has never needed to sign or speak to Clint but now when she presses her fingers to his temples all he feels is pain.

Her brother signs then, _Teddy and Amalia, their tent. Go!_

Clint is running before his fingers stop and no one has ever moved faster than the Silver Bullet before.

He finds Amalia on her knees, sobbing, her shirt ripped across a shoulder, umber skin blistered beneath it. Teddy stands beside her, hand in her wild curls, eyes blank as he takes in the tent they’ve called home for…

For longer than Clint’s 20 years. Amalia’s hands are moving and it takes Clint a long time to understand she is trying to communicate with him.

 _I told you,_ her fingers say over and over and over. _I told you not to._

 _I didn’t_ , he tries to sign back. But she collapses into herself and Teddy won’t look at Clint.

—

Performances are shut down indefinitely. Somehow Clint had always assumed the show made its money, was sustained by the applause and cheers, but he sees no changes with the curtain flaps closed.

Amalia’s shoulder heals slowly, imperfectly, and it remains to be seen if she’ll ever perform again. Clint suddenly worries about her place here.

He’s not sure he can remember anyone ever being injured beyond repair. The Captain assures him Teddy and Amalia will always have a place in the tent, but his hands shake and he doesn’t look Clint in the eyes.

The Master is gone. Or he’s become very good at not being found by Clint.

Clint spends his days on the wire, knocking things with his arrows and waiting to fall.

Someone finds Amalia and Teddy a new tent, and they set it up far away from Clint’s own.

He doesn’t seek them out. Instead he tries to help the TinMan find the Spider. The TinMan wants no help. _I know where he is. He’ll reappear when he’s ready._

But the TinMan works his metal and sparks should not glow purple. _The Master is waiting for you,_  the TinMan signs out of nowhere. _You should go to him._ He looks at Clint and there’s something in his bluefade eyes that looks like resignation. Recognition. _We always wait for you to come to us._

Clint doesn’t think “you” refers to him this time.

—

The fires stop as suddenly as they started and life goes back to normal, as if nothing ever happened. Pretty soon, it’s almost easy to believe nothing did happen.

Amalia’s shoulder heals enough, and the routines are altered to accommodate. Everyone still mostly ignores Clint.

But his show is cut, and he’s back to grunting. They send him to the Widow, and she puts him to work creating costumes. _Your fingers should not be so clumsy with needle and thread,_ she signs at him angrily.

She never looks the same when he sees her, hair blond and red and long and short. _One skill does not always lead to another_ , he responds. She can flip her knives and sew her sequins but he’d like to see her do what she does on a wire. She once accompanied the Master, together throwing knoves and fire at each other.

She doesn’t perform anymore though. Rumor-knowledge says she and the Master fought. He doesn’t know when, or what about, but he recognizes the white lines one her forearm, the strange divot in her ear.

Widow teaches him carefully, stabs his fingers when his stitches are not delicate.

She rarely tries to speak to him. It would be hard anyway, with their fingers occupied and their faces beside each other, but when she does deign to do more than correct his needle choice, Clint feels like she’s giving him the knowledge he’s always craved.

 _Master hasn’t performed since before you came. But, it was like he knew you were coming,_ she informs him once. _Straighten your stitches. This isn’t for the clowns._

That’s all she says to him for weeks. Until he asks her, as she’s packing the Tamer’s costume, _Will he ever let me perform again?_

Sometimes she smells like ash, and her fingers are rimmed in black, like the coal he once smeared across his eyes. But when she grabs his face, digs her fingers into his curly beard, he can smell the flint she uses to light the fire in her tent. _Don’t ask. Master makes his choices, and questioning him leads to nothing good. If you want to perform again, do as he commands and let him find you._

Clint looks at her confused. _Let him find me?_

Her eyes flash with some emotion he can’t name. _The Master’s life before this…_

 _I know, they took his flesh and mind._ Clint waves his hand and Widow leans into his face with her lips pulled back and teeth bared.

 _Do you even know who “they” are? Foolish boy. Get out._ She shoves him away, nails raking soot into the skin of his cheeks. _Out, out! You don’t deserve the Master’s affection. “They,” rumors and lies and you, selfish and dim._ Her fingers move quickly and her mouth also, and he imagines if he could hear her voice would be loud, but then she turns away from him, possibly still raving, and Clint stares at a long pink mark across her shoulder, up her neck, disappearing into her hair.

He also looks at the blisters behind one ear, and frowns. But he doesn’t ask her questions. He leaves her tent and goes to hide in his.

—

Widow will not let him back, and Clint’s stomach rolls with fear. If he is not useful, he has no place here.

If he has no place here…

He does what he can, fixing cages and tents, setting up and breaking down. He even tries to help Cook but Cook hands him bread and sends him away. _Don’t worry Little Arrow. You’re safe here._

It’s an odd parting, and one that doesn’t settle Clint’s nerves.

He takes to hiding in his tent, coming out only for meals and baths.

Teddy checks in on him, and his hands are gentle but there’s a tension between them that Clint fears might never leave.

_Is Amalia…_

_She misses you. But she’s also angry and hurt. You didn’t tell us._

_Tell you what?_

_That the Master has marked you._

Clint doesn’t understand what that means, and he tells Teddy as much. Teddy sits beside him, large and comforting and wraps himself around Clint. He feels, just for a moment, like a boy again; safe and cared for and unaware of anything beyond this life and the myth of a monster who kept them safe.

 _The Master has marked you, Clint. You are now his to keep and protect. Come see Amalia soon. Bring her sweets from Cook and purple flowers and some of the Witch’s cream for her shoulder._ Teddy kisses the top of his head, squeezes his shoulder, and leaves when his eyes grow misty. _Goodbye, son._

—

It takes Clint three weeks and a nightmare about silver flames to do as Teddy commanded. He snuck into the Big Top, watched Amalia’s new performance, awed despite her new limitations.

Cook gives him a full basket of sweets and breads and cheeses and smiles with that twinkle in their eyes. Wanda won’t touch him, but her brother signs her enthusiasm at seeing his face again. She gives him too much ointment and Pietro begs him to come watch their tricks.

Clint agrees, if only because their combined enthusiasm makes him forget his fears.

He finds a bundle of purple flowers in his tent, and he touches them, wary. There’s a note that says, “Mend what you must, then see Captain. You have a new routine.”

He doesn’t like it. But he takes the flowers and goes.

Amalia is swaying, and Clint thinks she must be humming when he finds her new tent. He watches her for a while. She’s dressed in a skirt and a top with an open back and he hates the ugly flesh of her shoulder. Hates that he’s seen it on someone else, but hates more that he knows this one is his fault.

He shifts, let’s his feet stomp hard to let Amalia know he is here. She turns and her smile is small, her eyes sad, but she wraps him in a hug that rivals Teddy’s and he feels _safe_.

 _Sweets?_ He tries to say aloud. He offers her the basket, and the flowers, and her smile grows. They eat, a feast of crusty bread and sharp cheeses and sweets that will make them ill later. And then he produces the Witch’s cream and she lets her grin splits her face. She turns and lets him rub the cream into the skin, gently. He can’t tell if his calloused fingers hurt her, but she only tenses once, right at the juncture where neck and shoulder connect. She turns back to him, taking the jar.

 _I’m sorry,_ she signs.

 _For what?_ He really doesn’t know.

 _The fires,_ she frowns, places a hand on his knee, _they weren’t your fault, my son. And it was cruel to blame you. The Master has always been a possessive man. That’s why we call him Master._

Clint stops her. _I don’t think he set the fires, though_.

Amalia studies him. _You don’t? Then who?_

He hesitates, because he doesn’t want to throw a name out. Their odd, large, chaotic family does not take kindly to things like this, and a false accusation could harm both the accused and the accuser.

Amalia waves her hand. _Bah, if you don’t believe it was not him, then it wasn’t him._ She grabs him again, holds him tight. _But be safe, Clint. Something is happening. Something that never has before. Things are changing under the Big Top. I fear…_ she grips his hand, press it to her belly and he can feel the slightest of rounding. _Teddy says things are changing for the better. But I fear they will get worse before the better comes._

She kicks him out after that, with promises of more meetings and meals. Clint makes his way to the Captain’s tent. The Spider comes slinking out, too skinny and eyes dark. He looks at Clint, and then the TinMan is there with his hand on the Spider’s shoulder. Spider signs, _Now is a bad time. The Captain argues with Mr. James._

_Who?_

TinMan gives him a sharp look. _The Master. Go back to your tent, Little Arrow. Spider senses danger. Go back to your tent and be safe._

And Clint knew, some, that the Spider had a way of sensing trouble, but he had never been aware that the Captain took council from the Spider.

He goes to his tent, and sleep comes; so do the silver and white flame nightmares, dreams of a needle-spark and inferno costumes.

He wakes with a startle, eyes stinging and chest aching. He can’t see anything, can’t breathe for the smoke that chokes him. He’s sweating, _burning,_ and he can’t find his way out.

He’s desperate to scream but he doesn’t know how to. He opens his mouth, works his throat, feels his chest and lungs, but there’s no one around, no way to leave his bed.

He’s going to die in his own tent, a pile of ashes.

And then there’s a fist grabbing his shirt, silver skin tight in the fabric. Bluegrass eyes are in his face and smooth lips are moving but Clint can’t read them, can barely see. The Master shoves a damp rag over his face, picks Clint up and stumbles under his weight for a moment.

His arm, the one made of metal is hot beneath Clint’s clothing, but the arm made of flesh is soft and sweat soaked.

Clint doesn’t quite know how they make it out, but he’s dumped in a trough of water, and the Master is patting his cloths, frowning at his hair.

He’s going to have to cut it short, to make it even now.

It’s dark, no one else is around, and Clint is still coughing up smoke. But he waves his hand in the Master’s face until those bluegrass eyes are trained on him. _How did you know?_

The Master ignores him. He begins wiping at Clint, checking him over for injuries. Clint snakes his hands away. There’s minor burns on his forearms and across his face, but his eyes have slowly stopped stinging and he can breath a little clearer. _How did you know?_

The Master’s shoulders drop heavily, head tilting up. He doesn’t look at Clint but he carefully signs, _I protect what is mine. Watch what is mine._

 _I’m yours?_ Clint demands.

Master looks at him, eyes softening and metal thumb brushing his cheek. _Of course, Little Arrow._

The name makes Clint angry and he snakes the hand away. _Clint. I’m Clint. I’m more than show piece._

The Master frowns at him. _I know this._

 _Do you?_ Clint’s fingers shake and his chin wobbles. _Tell me, what is your name? Or am I to always call you Master?_

The Master looks at him, studies him hard. But after a long few minutes in which Clint thinks his question will be ignored, the Master signs carefully and intently, _James. But some people call me Bucky._

 _Lucky?_ Clint asks mostly because he remembers watching the Captain’s lips. But it makes the Master laugh, makes him grab Clint’s hand and hold it to lips that are surprisingly chapped for how smooth they look and he says his name again, spells it out.

Clint wants to touch those lips with his own. Based on the heat in bluegrass eyes, the Master night let him. He leans forward, forward, forward, and the Master, James, _Bucky,_ steps back. _No. Not yet. Not until you are safe. See the Captain tomorrow._

Bucky disappears into the night, leaving Clint half hard and a whole lot hurt.

—

He’s quietly moved back into a tent with Amalia and Teddy. It makes them all nervous. Worried for their safety. But the Captain tells them, _Just a few days. The Witch and the Spider and the TinMan Know things. Have a plan._

He motions for Clint to follow him. _You have your suspicions too, do you not?_

Clint shuffles his feet, looks down. _I don’t have proof._

 _Tell me anyway,_ the Captain orders.

Clint doesn’t. Can’t. And the Captain’s shoulders drop like Bucky’s had last night. _No matter. We will have our proof. Come with me. I’ll show you the outfit for your new routine._

 _And what is my new routine?_ Clint questions.

The Captain doesn’t answer. He simple hands Clint a black spandex outfit, complete with a dark mask. Blindfold.

_I can’t walk the rope blind, like Teddy. I wouldn’t be able to hear something if I needed too._

There are thick leather cuffs for his wrist and ones for his ankles and the Captain smiles wryly as he signs, _You won’t be on the wire or walking the rope when you wear the mask. A week. Be ready._

_But for what? I still don’t know what I’ll be doing!!_

_Be ready_ , is all he gets.

—

Three days later Amalia wakes him roughly. Teddy stands beside her, and they wear grim expressions. _You should,_ Amalia cuts her eyes at Teddy. _It’s an ugly sight, Clint._

They lead him outside, lead him to the Big Top.

Clint isn’t stupid but he’s not the smartest either and it takes him a very long time to process what he sees.

Widow hangs like a marionette in the center of the tent. She’s pale, blood drained and soot is smeared across her skin. Her eyes are open, which is possibly the worst part of the gruesome scemetery because despite the milky covering of death, there’s a strange sort of acceptance in those cruel eyes.

Below her, flint and matches and hay and gasoline are piled.

 _So she set them,_ Clint signs.

Teddy and Amalia nod. Clint walks to the edge of the ring and falls to his hands and knees, throwing up bile and not much else. They wait for him to finish, the both of them wrap around him. They say that way until Amalia and Teddy must hear something. _You’re safe now,_ they sign as they leave. _You’re safe._ Amalia kisses his cheek.

The Master stands there, watching them. When Amalia and Teddy leave, he approaches Clint, cups his cheek and smiles.

Clint runs his fingers through dark hair that’s been shorn off. _I don’t like it,_ he mouths.

 _It’ll grow back,_ Bucky’s lips shape.

Clint surged forward, presses his lips to Bucky’s before he can be pushed away, and for a moment a metal arm wraps around his waist. But the Bucky leans back, frowning deeply and rejection sours in Clint’s gut.

 _You could’ve at least rinsed with water, first,_ Bucky signs, releasing him.

Clint can feel his face flush, suddenly remembering the mess outside the ring. He kicks a boot into the dirt. Bucky grabs his hand, flesh against flesh, and metal fingers turn Clint’s face towards his own. _Come. Let’s clean you up._

Bucky leads him to his own tent. It’s surprisingly small, simple, for the man who owns the Show.

Clint likes it.

Bucky hands him a rag, and a toothbrush, and lets Clint compose himself.

 _I’m sorry,_ Clint signs. _About Widow. I know,_ he pauses, because he’s not sure if he’s allowed to know about their history.

Bucky shrugs. _She’s been here since the show began, but she’s always wanted more than I could give her._

Clint nods like he understands what that means. Bucky rolls his eyes and steps forward.  He moves slowly, purposefully, pulls Clint’s shirt up and off. Oh. _Oh._

Clint puts his hands over Bucky’s. He, at six, he wanted to meet the man whose skin and mind were stolen. Wanted to give him what Teddy and Amalia had gifted a small, deaf orphan.

But at 21 he has seen and lost many things, and he’s afraid of having something else to lose. _And if I cannot give you everything you want?_

Bucky steps back. He looks small, young, nothing like a man who owns the world and hangs traitors from the sky. But Clint can still see the Widow’s pale body, can still taste ash and bile between his jaws. _I would never force you, Clint. Never take what you won’t give._

 _Yet,_  Clint tries to reassure him. But Bucky is already retreating, and it’s the Master who signs, _Be ready to perform. I’ll see you then._ Bucky leaves Clint in his own tent, shirtless and uncertain of his own desires.

—

 _No!!_ Clint’s fingers move quickly, how mouth a thin line. He’s dressed in the black outfit the Widow made him and he’s supposed to perform in three minutes but he’s still arguing with the Captain. _The chains already throw off my balance and I haven’t done a routine in months. I’m out of practice and this is already a risk. If you bind my wrist I can’t catch myself._

 _You’ll be fine. The Master_ , Captain starts but Clint cuts him off with an angry wave of his hand.

 _The Master is not a god._ But he slumps a little, deflated.

Captain places a hand on his shoulder, waits until Bucky is looking at his lips. _We all know you’ve been practicing, Little Arrow. You never stopped. You could do this in your sleep, bound and blindfolded. But we won’t bind your wrist totally together._ He produced a thick metal bar, with cuffs on the end, and a small ring in the center.

Clint allows him to attach it, then signs as best he can. _I still don’t understand, why am I alone? What’s special about this?_

 _You’ll see,_ the Captain mouths. He smirks, _It’ll be a show to remember._

Amalia and Teddy lead him out, help attach his arms to the chain from the center of the tent. They must know something as well, because they smile at him, kiss his cheeks.

He goes. They’ve given him no bow, told him to fly high and dance on the wire, but nothing else. He feels off balance, without his bow, and with the weight around his ankles, and he doesn’t _understand._

But he climbs the ladder, takes a step onto the wire, and then glances at the crowd watching him. He gets the feeling they know more than he does. But he walks, arms above his head, towards the center and then looks. Is he supposed to leap? There are no rings to catch, no ropes to swing from.

He feels the wind behind his neck and he goes completely still. The next knife flies in front of his nose, but Clint doesn’t stattle. He looks down, and the Master stands below him.

The Master is dressed in leather. His short hair has grown just below his ears, and his nose and mouth are covered in a black mask. His metal arm is oiled, but it’s his fleshy hand that flips a gleaming blade.

Platforms rise around Clint, and ropes unfurl before him. The Master nods his head and Clint jumps. He flips, a knife curling between his rounded body, two on either side of his shoulders as he lands on a platform to his left.

He smiles, suddenly aware of the game he’s playing.

He forgets his audience.

Clint shakes his legs, testing the chain and looking around. The hook is too far from this platform, but there’s a ring he can catch if he times it right.

A knife shoots between his bound wrists, and he knows he’s taking too long, so he dives, let’s the chain catch the ring, lets himself spin.

He dances like that for what feels like forever and seconds. At first it’s just knives, and then the knives are flaming. By the time the lights subtly flicker, telling him to get back to his podium, he’s sweaty and tired. But when he gets back, he’s not given the signal to climb down. He looks at the crowd, and they’re all holding their breath, watching just below him.

The Master is climbing up, a black strap in his hands. When he gets up there, the hook is lowered.

Bucky looks at him, bluegrass eyes begging.

Clint offers his wrist, the bar between them, and The Master fits the hook through the ring. Then he holds up the cloth.

This is Clint’s choice to make. Offering everything up. He won’t be able to hear, or to move, or to _see_.

He has to trust the Master, trust Bucky with _everything_ in him. Bucky touches him with metal fingers, and Clint knows it won’t be the human arm chucking knives at him.

If he’s hit…

He’s seen those corpses. He shuts his eyes and Bucky leans down to fit the blindfold on. If he manages to press a kiss to Clint’s cheek, the crowd couldn’t possibly tell.

He feels the air shift as The Master moves away from him, and feels himself being lifted, being pulled. He wonders who is controlling his chain, and then decided he doesn’t actually want to know.

Everything is dark, is silent. The swing is gentle, but he’s sweating. The first knife fits between the sliver of space between his bicep and his ear, and he can’t help but snort because _of course_ the first throw would be so showy. He sways, and feels a knife pass his ribs.

Two can be showy and even bound he’s still flexible. So he lifts his knees, slowly, points his toes until he’s bent in half and twist.

He _feels_ the knife as it passes his belly, but he knows he’s not cut. He stretches his legs out in front of him, taunting, and the next knife flies under his chin.

Clint almost wishes he could hear the crowd.

By the time he’s being lowered to the ground and Bucky is removing the blindfolds, Clint’s half hard and has forgotten about the people watching. Bucky leans down to unchain his legs, biting his thigh as he does so, and then Clint offers his wrist.

Bucky raises a brow. Clint wiggles his fingers and mouths, _I speak better with these._

Bucky undoes the cuffs and leads Clint from the ring.

—

They go to Clint’s tent, if only because it’s closer, and Bucky’s got his costume half off before they’re even through the flap.

Clint laughs, smiles, pulls down the leather face guard to press his mouth against chapped lips.

Bucky gently but insistantly pushes him onto his cot.

He makes Clint stop, gentle pushes of his chin so that Clint is looking at him.

 _Do you trust me?_ Bucky signs.

Clint glances down at his chest, at his cock peeking from the spandex, already leaky, at the red on his wrist from cuffs they’ll need to pad better. _Now you ask?_

 _I knew I wouldn’t hit you. That I wouldn’t hurt you. This is different._ Bucky speaks, but does it slow so Clint can read. His hands are busy, tracing Clint’s sides, tracing through the curls.

 _Unfair,_ Clint signs, motioning towards his fingers.

 _Do you trust me? May I have this?_ Bucky’s eyes are so soft, so begging, Clint doesn’t have the heart to tease him.

He tangles his fingers in Bucky’s hair and pulls his face down for a kiss, thrust his hips up to feel Bucky’s own length against his.

 _Yes,_ he mouths. _Always._

It’s a flurry of undressing after that, and of Bucky producing oil like magic. Clint isn’t afraid, though he thinks he should be as Bucky bites his way down Clint’s chest, up his thighs. He keeps a fist in Bucky’s hair as the Master licks at his cock, takes his balls into his mouth.

This is a man with secrets. Who has murdered many, and left their bodies in the open.

But he takes Clint down his throat, one quick, smooth motion, and keeps Clint’s hips pinned to the bed with inhuman force.

Clint doesn’t know what noise he makes, but Bucky lifts his head up, let’s Clint fall from his mouth.

Clint _feels_ himself whine. Bucky taps his hips, make Clint look at him, and signs _All good?_

 _Oh my god,_ Clint’s fingers move too fast and he has to repeat himself. _I’m not good because you fucking stopped!_ God, but he wishes he could hear the laughter that makes Bucky’s whole body bounce.

And then.

And _then_. Bucky oils his flesh fingers and circles Clint’s hole. It’s not like Clint hasn’t done this to himself, or even fooled around with a clown or two. But there’s something _different_ about fingers thick with callouses, with confidence. Bucky presses a thumb in and Clint’s legs fall wide and his hips shift up.

Bucky works, as with everything, methodically but randomly. Clint can’t keep track of what finger is in him, or how many at one point. Bucky works him open and Clint fist one hand in his blanket and the other grips Bucky’s shoulder so tightly he fears he’ll leave bruises.

Bucky taps his knee, gentle pushes and arranged until he has one of Clint’s knees presses to his chest. He taps Clint on the chin, waits until Clint is staring into his eyes. _Are you ready?_

Clint nods, swallowing heavy. Bucky’s metal hand wraps around his cock and he makes Clint help him enter, slowly, metal hand moving around Clint distractingly.

Bucky bottoms out and holds still, letting Clint adjust, but his metal fingers never stop stroking and twisting. Clint glances down at the mess and wonders if it’s going to be bad for that hand, his spend catching between the plates. He looks at Bucky and taps his lips.

Bucky answers with a kiss, and a sharp jerk of his hips. He is unrelenting in his thrust, never lets Clint catch the rhythm. By the time Clint is tapping at Bucky’s chest, mouth making noises he can only imagine, Bucky has his face buried in Clint’s neck.

He squeezes Clint’s cock, strokes quickly, and right as Clint’s whole body tightens and his hips jerk up, Bucky nips him below the ear, sending him completely over.

Bucky is still moving in him, thrusts finally losing their smooth edge when Clint opened his eyes, comes down from the orgasm high. He’s sensitive, overly so, but Bucky’s hand still strokes his softening cock and Clint tries to move. He doesn’t know if it’s _into_ the strange pleasure-pain or away, but Bucky pins him tight, keeps stroking even as Clint whines. Bucky’s lips move against Clint’s neck, not in kisses but in a phrase it takes him a while to parse out. _Do you trust me?_

All Clint can do is stroke a strong, scarred back in answer, writhe beneath a hand that won’t quit, hips that are stuttering towards release.

He’s hard again, but also _too close_ to release when Bucky finally tenses. Bucky frantically taps his chest, moves his lips but Clint struggles to understand.

Finally Bucky just points between them, starts to pull out. Clint shakes his head frantically, grabs Bucky by the hips and clenches as tight as he can. Bucky comes, a fully body thing, hot and fast inside of Clint. It sends Clint right back over the edge and he knows he must scream.

They collapse together, sticky, sweaty, sated.

Touching everywhere they can. Bucky mouths at every part of Clint he can reach without having to move, until Clint pulls his face up, captures his lips.

They don’t part until they’re breathless, cooling, and it’s only so Bucky can slide out. Can grab Clint’s pitcher of water and some rags and wipe them clean.

 _Are you good?_ Bucky signs once they’re curled into each other, still naked but mostly clean.  

Clint nods, but then he signs _Are you human?_ And he’s only kind of joking, thinking about the rumor-knowledge he learned at six.

Bucky shrugs. _Are any of us?_

It’s not an answer, but Clint doesn’t push.

 _I was, and now I am, but only mostly,_ Bucky signs, wiggling metal fingers. _There was a war, and a wizard, and I built this sanctuary after._

It’s the only explanation Clint really needs, really cares for, but Bucky continues. _I protect what I find. What needs me. I always will, and what needs me will always have a home_

 _What will you protect me from?_ Clint asks. He’s growing sleepy.

 _Everything,_ Bucky signs. _Including yourself_. Clint thinks that’s what the last sign was, as his eyes drift shut.

—

Little Arrow has never cared about the crowds. That’s what the crowds whisper as he climbs the podium, wrist bound together and ankles chained. He’s already performed his own routine, arrows and wires and impossible bends. And now he’s going to let someone else take control.

He’s been doing this for longer than possible. The show has existed for longer than possible. Unaging, always changing.

He can’t hear, and they take away his sight, his mobility, and they hang him like a marionette.

And then the Master walks into the ring. The Master who vanished for decades, and came back to sling knives at a boy who spins, unable to touch the world around him.

Unable to see or hear or catch himself should a knife be errant.

The knives never hit him though, and the Master, a man with a metal arm and blood stained boots always lowers Little Arrow down. When he removes the bindings, the blindfold, he does it reverently. For just a moment the Master, _monster,_ gives up control and _begs_ the man whose life he just held in his hands.

Little Arrow always answers with a gently tap to the Master’s cheek and the crowds leave the strange, dreamy show, already planning when they’ll come back, when they’ll bring their kids. Little Arrow and the Master don’t care, already disappearing to their own tent, to their own after show ritual.


End file.
